Westron

Winter winds go forcibly through a landscape. The palette changes as you watch. Going through a field of this and the forest at the edge. Do you only imagine this lavendar light? It is like a dry washing machine, a washing machine of air. And you are in the middle of its violence, like a garment trying to escape but following the rhythms of the machine. Trying to think less while walking in heavy winds won't work. Winds, especially these winter winds, have mastered reverse psychology. They know you will try to retreat to silence. They are like the pressers of old. They put the stones of winds on your mind and force all your silence out.

It may be their unfairness you come to love.

A Piece of Paper

A piece of paper blows through an empty park. And you stand there, this is what you watch. Is it transparent, translucent, is it opaque? It skips the air like a child's knees. Though it is tiny, though it is nothing. You realize the word empty is loaded. The way you stand and wait for an "all clear" from yourself. The tree branches bend down to the earth in heavy wind then. You know then what it is like. It is like dolls with diamonds in their wooden knees.

Sweater

The child's sweater left in the park. Taken off like protection, forgotten. A color that glows at twilight. You imagine the color. An antique mother sitting in a thrift store window.

When I Walk

it is mostly to encounter branches
to believe the sentences of air
to walk into winter winds
which pack a grammar
and stare at who water has done
but does not remember
her library of stones
serves me in good stead
sometimes there is a canal
thin as fate, long poisoned
where golden carp spam their lives nevertheless
silt their whiskers in heavy metals
from a mill's century of overtime